Their Final Confrontation
by Dark Kaneanite
Summary: A secret Santa request for Shinigami Sakura2000


_A/N: Ok, well all know that I like to try out new things. So when I was approached by one of my good friends to do a 'Secret Santa' type writing challenge I literally jumped at the chance. This fic is a gift for Shinigami_Sakura2000. Happu Hoildays hun and I hope you enoiy it!_

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He knew it was a bad idea the moment it left Irvine's lips. How the arrogant blonde could even think that holding a New Year's part while they were in Montreal was a good idea was beyond him. Yet the combined roster had unanimously agreed and he found himself being drug along by Glenn; the bald man pleading with him as he himself was being tugged along behind his two young lovers. Against his better judgment he tagged along; hurling good natured insults at his friend as he was forced out onto the dance floor and made to participate in the one of the most degrading songs known to man. The Chicken Dance song.

Over in one of the corners the Hardy brothers were setting up for a game of 'Bobbing for Apples'; Jeff filling the large tub with Vodka when Matt disappeared to find the apples. Mark shook his head and made a mental note not to get involved in that game. He signaled the bartender and ordered a Whiskey Sour; atleast if he was drunk he could block out most of the idiocy around him. As he waited he started to doubt his reserves about this being a bad idea. That club they had invaded had shut down so that only WWE employees and those that came with them were permitted in. The peaceful atmosphere wasn't to last. He had just downed his third Whiskey Sour when he heard a squeal followed by a high pitched "Uncle Brett!" The simple words which should have been lost in the pulsating beat of the music rang out and soon the room was eerily quiet; all eyes turned towards the two people standing by the door hugging happily.

When the pulled apart the dark haired bane of many people's existence looked around, his lips curled in his trademark smirk. The crowd parted around him like the red sea and Mark rolled his eyes and turned back to his drink.

"_That'll help his god complex._" He snorted as he gratefully picked up his fourth drink and slammed it back.

"Well, well, well. Look who we have here."

That voice was akin to nails on a chalkboard to Mark and he winced before turning around; a false smile on his face.

"Hart. Didn't think you'd have the balls to show up here."

Brett laughed and signaled for the bartender, smiling as the man took his order and scurried away as if he was frightened of the older man.

"What kind of owner would I be if I didn't show up and give my guests my _eternal_ thanks for choosing my humble establishment for their drunken idiocy needs?"

Mark rolled his eyes and tossed some bills down on the bar as he rose to his feet.

"Well then Mr. Owner, I suggest you give this poor boy a raise. He mixes some damn fine drinks."

The bartender smiled and ducked his head; a blush covering his cheeks as he took the money and placed it in the till. Mark grabbed a napkin and scribbled something on it before motioning for the kid again, a lecherous grin on his face as he handed it to him and walking away. Brett scowled and snatched the napkin from him before barking at him to get back to work. Written in Marks' untidy scrawl was what Brett assumed was his cell number and what appeared to be the name of his hotel and the room number. Brett's lips kicked up in a devious smirk on one side as a plan welled in his mind; taking his entire thought process over completely in a matter of minutes. Out of all the rookies that had come in before his tenure with the WWE had been over Mark was among the few that he never sampled.

Not that he never tried the— then young red head—had always managed to avoid him and his advances. However now, on this night he wasn't going to be so lucky. Brett left strict rules for the manager and ducked out the back way after saying goodbye to Natalya and David. He kept to the side of the building in case there were any smokers lingering about—not that he was afraid, but he'd rather not show up at Mark's hotel covered in blood—then climbed into his car; snorting as he seen one of the Hardy's being chased around the left side of the parking lot by an angry young man with black hair. He shook his head and ghosted from the lot; the napkin lying on the passenger seat and drawing his eyes away from the road more than it should have.

Sooner than he would have liked Marks' hotel loomed into view and Bret felt an uncharacteristic shiver of nervousness course through his body. He closed his eyes and climbed out of the car, swallowing hard before forcing a cocky smirk on his face and striding through the lobby. If he looked out of place no one dared to stop him; of course no one probably even really paid attention, they had other things to worry over than what one lone man was doing. He looked down at the wadded up napkin, paling slightly when he seen that from the repeated folding and unfolding and the oil mixed with sweat from his hand had faded the writing to almost nonexistent. He peered down and let out a sigh as he squinted; hoping that he'd still be able to read it.

It took a couple rides up and down the elevator but finally Bret was able to extract the number, a large grin on his face as he pushed the button for the sixth floor. He repeated the number over and over as he stepped out of the elevator car, his stomach doing flip-flops and making him queasy. Each step took him closer to his destination, and perhaps to his destiny.

"_My Destiny?_" He laughed and shook his head; forcing himself back into the person he had been all those years ago. "_Tonight is his night to dance with the Destiny he managed to escape all those years ago._"

Feeling more in control he slowed his pace and sauntered the rest of the way down the hall, wishing he had his shades so that he could hide the lingering doubt that he had the feeling was residing in his eyes. The door seemed to loom in front of him and before he could really pull together a plan of action he found himself knocking on the door; his breath caught in his throat and his hands sweating uncontrollably.

"_Get yourself together._" He screamed at himself as the doorknob rattled.

"Didn't think you'd show this ear—" Marks voice went from warm and slightly gravelly to completely flat and growl filled. "Hart."

"Look here Calaway, I just wanted to come and tell you that your advances on my staff were unwarranted and unwanted." Bret started, his lips twisting into scowl as he fought to keep his eyes on Mark's face instead of the tall man's naked chest.

"You came all this way just to tell me that?" Mark quirked an eyebrow at him; crossing his arms in front of him as he waited for Bret to respond.

Bret knew Mark had him cornered; there really was no way to get out of this with looking extremely stupid; and that something Bret wanted to avoid if at all possible. He stood there fidgeting; his face coloring slightly when he heard Mark expel a heavy breath.

"Since you're here and it's about time for the ball to drop. Do you wanna stay?"

Mark moved to the side and motioned for Bret to enter; rolling his eyes when Bret just stood there staring into the room.

"Look I'm not going to stand here all night. Either you want to come in or you don't it's up to you."

"Sure."

Bret stepped through the door and moved over to the side, jumping slightly as Mark closed the door.

"So whatcha got to drink in this place?" He asked, trying to steady his voice as Mark trained his emerald gaze on him.

"Just some whiskey and whatever is in the minibar."

Mark moved about the room, picking up the tumbler had to have been drinking out of before Bret knocked and leaning against the counter; staring out the large floor to ceiling windows that had the drapes pulled all the way back. Like he had when Mark first stepped into the locker room, Bret let his eyes wander up and down the large man's frame; taking in all the minute changes that time had wrought on him. He was slightly smaller around the waist, and his hair a little thinner with the auburn tresses freshly dyed black. Time hadn't been as rough on Mark as it had him and for a moment Bret felt like a complete fool for coming. More than likely Mark hated him like nearly everyone else in the WWE's payroll did.

"So other than owning a bar what have you been doing?" Mark's voice was nonchalant, but one look at the man's body posture and Bret knew that Mark would have anyone else there but him.

"Some training, but really nothing."

The air was tense and Bret thought about turning and leaving. There really wasn't any sense in him staying where he knew he wasn't wanted.

"I had that match won." Mark growled, his eyes trained Bret's face.

"W-what?"

"Summer Slam '97. I had it won."

"You're still sore about that?" Bret snorted; rolling his eyes as he leaned against the mini fridge and took a pull off of the whiskey bottle he had just liberated from within the box's icy depths.

"And you're still not sore about Montreal?" Mark quirked his eyebrow, a smirk on his face that added further fuel to Bret's sudden flame of anger.

"Well I remember superplexing you off the top rope."

"I broke the Sharp Shooter." Mark hissed; pushing himself away from the counter and standing toe to toe with Bret.

"Doesn't matter Red. I still won the match." Bret felt the right corner of his lips kick up into a smirk and he stared up, daring Mark to do or saying something.

"You stole it." Mark growled. "And don't call me Red."

"Whatcha gonna do about it……Red."

Bret knew he was teetering on the edge of stupidity, but he couldn't stop; it was like standing in front a bull and waving a red flag. Sure it would get you killed but the rush of it would make you feel alive.

"I said don't call me that." Mark stared down at him and the intensity in his eyes made Bret's heart skip a beat.

"Re-"

Bret's taunt was stopped when Mark pushed him up against the wall, his large fist curled around the neck of Bret's shirt and pulling it upwards. The look on Mark's face should have been enough to warn him to keep his mouth shut but Bret never was one to listen to reason.

"Whaddya going to do Mark? Hit me?"

Bret leaned forwards, his eyes going down and tracing Mark's lips. His mind was screaming at him to stop but he didn't listen; he leaned in the last couple of inches and captured Mark's lips. The large man pulled his head back and stared at Bret, confusion clear in the emerald depths of his eyes. Bret opened his mouth to say something—anything that would keep the large man from sinking his fist into his face, but he never got the chance. Mark crashed their lips back together, his free hand threading in Bret's hair and tugging; making the older man moan into the kiss. Mark's hand that had fisted in his shirt uncurled and slipped down his chest before slowly moving around to his back and pressing him closer.

The tv droned on in the back ground; the count as the ball dropped accented by a piece of clothing being tossed to the side and hands clinging and squeezing as lips and teeth traveled of their own accord. When the ball touched down a loud cry filled the room and Bret arched as his eyes rolled back into his head. He dimly heard Mark laughing but all that mattered at that moment was the pure, unadulterated pleasure that spread slowly through his veins; consuming him and making him writhe and whimper against the larger man. Bret's entire thought process shut down on him as he let go; painting Mark's stomach and howling loud enough to wake the dead. It wasn't long after that Mark released; welling hot and deep within him and making Bret tremble.

They stayed joined for a few moments, neither really believing what had happened. Slowly Mark let Bret's legs fall and held on to him as he gently lowered the man to the ground. His face a red as he stepped back and grabbed his discarded jeans.

"I..uh.."

"Happy New Year's Mark."

Bret gathered his clothes and hurriedly dressed, keeping his back to the large man the entire time. Once he was presentable, he turned and grabbed Mark's wrist; pulling the unsuspecting man close and kissing him once more before turning and leaving. He heard the door open behind him but didn't turn around; couldn't or else he'd turn back and ask to stay. Once he was in closeted in the elevator he let go the breath he had been holding and grinned. It didn't go the way he had planned, but it hadn't turned out so bad either.


End file.
